Maybe

by Morris Gleitzman

  Ken isn’t medically trained.

  He probably doesn’t understand the difference between ‘medical condition’ and ‘complete medical cure’. Specially if a nurse is trying to explain it to him in Polish.

  I’m still clinging to that thought when Ken and the supervising medical officer arrive at my bed.

  Ken stands back. The supervising medical officer gives me a nervous smile.

  ‘Feeling better?’ he says.

  ‘There’s been a very big mistake,’ I say to him in English. ‘Ken thinks that Gabriek has got a medical condition.’

  The supervising medical officer sighs and looks unhappy. Which doesn’t make me feel the slightest bit better.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I say, my voice loud with fear and squeaky with panic.

  The supervising medical officer sits down next to my bed.

  ‘Felix,’ he says, speaking English slowly. ‘In the past, Gabriek had a head injury, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘The Nazis burned his farmhouse. Some of the roof fell on him. But that was over a year ago. He’s been fine.’

  ‘Until yesterday,’ says the supervising medical officer. ‘That blow on the head he received in the town square, plus his earlier injury, has left him with a serious condition.’

  This place isn’t so superbly heated after all.

  I’m shivering.

  ‘It’s not all bad news, Felix,’ says the supervising medical officer. ‘There is no immediate danger for Gabriek. If he looks after himself, he won’t die. Probably he’ll live a long and happy life. But only if he stays away from big and sudden changes in air pressure. So no flying and no deep sea diving.’

  ‘Do you understand?’ says Ken.

  I nod numbly.

  ‘No flying,’ I say. ‘No deep diving in the sea.’

  Ken smiles. Probably because he thinks we don’t

  do deep sea diving in Poland.

  We do. So he’s wrong. They both are.

  ‘There must be an operation,’ I say desperately. ‘Something that will cure Gabriek. Or make it less serious. So he can fly.’

  The supervising medical officer hesitates.

  He looks even more unhappy.

  ‘There is an operation,’ he says. ‘But I’m not qualified to do it. It’s a difficult and very specialised procedure. I doubt there are any surgeons left in Poland who could do it. And almost no hospitals with the necessary facilities intact.’

  ‘Too fast,’ mutters Ken. ‘Say it slower.’

  The supervising medical officer starts saying it all again.

  I understood the first time.

  I don’t bother waiting for him to finish.

  ‘I’ll do the operation,’ I say. ‘I’ll learn how to, and I’ll get the facilities, and I’ll do it.’

  I glare at Ken.

  Just let him dare smile at that. He doesn’t.

  ‘Felix,’ says the supervising medical officer, more slowly this time. ‘I saw the work you did on Flight Lieutenant Wagstaff’s leg. Rough, but very impressive. You’re going to be a fine doctor. But not in Poland. Most of our universities are destroyed. Very few medical schools have survived. The sons of rich families are taking all the places. You need to find somewhere that has better opportunities. Which, Felix, is why you should go to Australia.’

  I glare at him.

  He and Ken must be friends.

  They’re in this together.

  ‘Also,’ says the supervising medical officer, ‘there are your legs.’

  I keep glaring at him.

  ‘What about my legs?’ I say.

  ‘The muscular-skeletal condition you have can be treated,’ says the supervising medical officer. ‘Australia has surgeons who could possibly do that. Worth thinking about, eh?’

  I don’t reply. I don’t trust him.

  I struggle out of bed, ignoring the pain in my ribs, and start taking my hospital pyjamas off.

  ‘What are you doing?’ says the supervising medical officer.

  ‘Where are my clothes?’ I say.‘There’s somewhere I need to be.’

  The supervising medical officer calls for nurses and a couple of them hurry over and put me back into bed.

  Nurses are stronger than they look.

  What the people here don’t realise is that I’m more determined than I look.

  ‘Take it easy, Felix,’ says Ken. ‘No rush. Plenty of time for goodbyes. We’re not leaving for Australia for a couple of days.’

  ‘And,’ says the supervising medical officer, ‘the flight can probably be delayed for a day or two more if you need extra time to recover.’

  I give them both a long look.

  They’re probably both very well educated. Australia and England have probably got lots of very good universities without the slightest bit of bomb damage. Ken and the supervising medical officer probably both spent years studying there and learned lots.

  But if they think I’m going to Australia without Gabriek and Anya, they don’t know anything.

  that’s Celeste Prejenka’s house there.

  The person on the corner said it was down here somewhere and it’s the only one with light flickering in the windows. All I can see in the rest of this lane are a few dark cottages and lots of dark trees.

  As I get closer to the glowing house, the moon goes behind a cloud.

  I walk carefully through the mud, trying not to make my ribs hurt more. After the effort I put into getting away from the hospital, I don’t want to crack something and end up back in the ward.

  I don’t think discharging myself would work again. I think the guards will be checking the back of laundry trucks leaving the air base much more closely from now on.

  The moon comes out again.

  I make my way up a path towards a front door. Yes, this looks like the right house.

  On the doorstep are Gabriek’s and Anya’s boots. And another pair which must be Celeste Prejenka’s.

  But no children’s boots.

  I sigh.

  You know how sometimes in wartime people have lots of children so if a few get killed they’ll still have some left but war is so brutal that sometimes all the children get killed and parents are just left with photographs?

  I think that might have happened to Celeste Prejenka.

  I knock on the door.

  Celeste Prejenka opens it.

  ‘Hello,’ I say sympathetically.

  She frowns at me.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in hospital?’ she says. ‘You’re meant to be under observation for concussion.’

  ‘I discharged myself,’ I say. ‘I’m hoping that with my medical experience and yours, I could be under observation here, if that’s alright with you.’

  Celeste smiles.

  She doesn’t argue. We both know there are much more serious things that can happen than a bit of concussion.

  ‘Come in,’ she says. ‘A little medical observation is the least I can offer after scaring you on the road like that.’

  At first I think she means her very fast driving. Then I realise she means the first time I met her, when she and Flight Lieutenant Wagstaff stopped their truck on the road and she was weird.

  ‘I must apologise,’ says Celeste. ‘I was feeling upset that day. And then as we drove past, I thought I recognised you. Stupid. My memory plays tricks on me sometimes.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘Mine does too sometimes.’

  Celeste leads me into a little sitting room.

  Gabriek and Anya must have heard my voice because they’re standing up. I can tell from the way the candles are flickering that they jumped up quickly. Which isn’t good for people with their medical conditions.

  ‘Sit down,’ I say to them. ‘Relax. I’m not rushing off anywhere.’

  I want them to know that. Just in case they’ve heard about Ken’s offer and think I’ve accepted and have come to say goodbye.

  As if.

  Now I’m the o
ne who needs to sit down.

  After what Gabriek has just been saying, my legs have almost stopped working.

  I slump onto a chair.

  Gabriek and Anya sit down too.

  They look at me, concerned.

  ‘We wish we could all go together,’ says Gabriek. ‘But it’s important that you go now.’

  ‘Gabriek’s right,’ says Anya.

  ‘That’s totally crazy,’ I say. ‘You’ve both gone mad. There’s no way I’m going to Australia without you.’

  This is what I’d feared.

  Ken must have talked to Gabriek at the hospital. Filled his head with crazy ideas.

  Gabriek’s obviously got concussion worse than me. I should go and get Celeste from the kitchen so we can examine him together.

  ‘Felix,’ says Gabriek. ‘Think about it sensibly. Anya can’t fly in her condition. I can’t either. But we can both come later. The Australian government is working on a plan to increase the population of their country. They’re going to start taking people from Europe. By boat. Completely free of charge. In a year or so.’

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘That’s when we’ll all go.’

  Gabriek sighs.

  ‘Ken is offering you a precious opportunity now, Felix,’ he says. ‘You’ll meet people who can help you with your education. Australia has some of the best universities in the world. Sydney University. Melbourne University.’

  ‘Ken showed you brochures, did he?’ I mutter. ‘He really knows how to twist you round his finger, doesn’t he?’

  Gabriek looks hurt.

  ‘Felix,’ says Anya. ‘Don’t be a jerk.’

  She’s right. Normally I’d say sorry to Gabriek for being rude and unkind.

  But I’m too upset. All the special people in my life except for Gabriek and Anya have gone.

  Gabriek said we’re in this together.

  Two days ago he said it.

  And now Gabriek and Anya want us not to be in this together for a whole year.

  ‘I’m not going,’ I say to Anya. ‘I’m not leaving you to have the baby on your own.’

  Anya looks at me.

  ‘You’re a dear sweet friend,’ she says. ‘But you’re also an idiot. We need you to grab this chance and get yourself set up in Australia. So when you meet the three of us off the boat in a year’s time, you’ll have somewhere to take us. And you’ll know what’s what and where’s where. And we won’t all be sitting in the gutter scratching our heads.’

  I start to tell her how totally crazy that is, but I stop. Because it’s not.

  Not totally.

  ‘I’ll be fine having the baby,’ says Anya. ‘Thanks to your book and all the talking we’ve done about cervixes and placentas and things. And Celeste has lots of experience.’

  I stare at the floor.

  I try to imagine what it would be like not to see Gabriek or Anya for a year.

  I could do it, of course I could.

  But I don’t want to.

  ‘We’ll miss you, Felix,’ says Anya.

  She gives me one of her looks and even though I’m very cross, my insides go softer than butter on a breakfast plate.

  ‘Sleep on it, Felix,’ says Gabriek quietly. ‘You don’t have to decide tonight.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I say.

  It is a good idea because tomorrow I won’t be so tired and my head won’t be hurting and I can deal with this nonsense once and for all.

  Tomorrow I can remind Gabriek and Anya of the main reason I won’t be going to Australia. The most important reason I won’t be leaving them here on their own.

  A reason I don’t even want to think about just before going to bed.

  So I’m not even going to say his name.

  I’m hearing things. Maybe concussion can make your ears go strange.

  I wonder if Gabriek and Anya can hear that scary sound.

  ‘Gabriek,’ I whisper.

  Nothing.

  Only the murmur of his steady breathing.

  I sit up. Celeste’s sitting room is dark. The fire-place is just embers. Thick curtains on the windows. No moonlight at all.

  Gabriek and Anya are lying next to me on the floor, still asleep.

  I hear the sound again.

  Footsteps on the soft mud outside. Made by somebody who doesn’t want to be heard.

  Somebody who never gives up.

  I hold my breath. I think about where I can find a weapon, fast.

  Anya’s gun is probably in her coat pocket.

  That’s if the guards at the air base didn’t take it. Probably not. Anya is very good at using her pregnant tummy to distract people.

  There’s the sound again.

  I reach for Anya’s coat.

  Wait a minute. There’s a flicker of light under Celeste’s bedroom door. The sound is coming from inside her room.

  It’s only Celeste.

  I breathe out with relief.

  Zliv hasn’t found us. Not yet.

  But how long till he does? A neighbour in the city told me that Zliv once waited four months to kill a Serbian warlord who stole from him. He tracked the warlord across two countries, then waited until the river Danube thawed so he could swim underwater to the warlord’s hideout with a knife in his mouth.

  Next morning the warlord was found dead in his bed. With his skin missing.

  I shiver.

  I shouldn’t be thinking about this.

  Yes I should. Because one night, sooner or later, I’ll hear a sound and it won’t be a kind ex-nurse in the next room.

  I wriggle back under my blanket and shut my eyes and try to breathe slowly. It’s something the partisans taught me.

  I almost manage to. Until a thought hits me.

  A thought so crazy it makes me sit up again.

  It’s an idea about Zliv. What I could do about him if I go to Australia.

  No, it’s too risky. Much too dangerous.

  But it might work.

  Maybe.

  I push the thought out of my mind because I’m hearing the sound again. Still coming from Celeste’s room. But now it’s not like footsteps at all.

  More like slow painful sobbing.

  I slip out from under the blanket, careful not to wake Gabriek and Anya. I put my glasses on and move slowly over to the bedroom door and listen.

  Celeste is crying.

  It’s none of my business. After a war, the world is probably full of sad and unhappy people who cry by themselves at night.

  But sometimes having the right person with you can help.

  I don’t know what it feels like to have all your children killed. I don’t know how a parent could live with that. But I do know how it feels to miss people very much.

  I tap on the door.

  It’s not locked. It swings open.

  I stand in the doorway.

  Celeste is sitting on the floor in front of a small table with candles burning on it.

  Her head is in her hands.

  This is private. I should really close the door and leave.

  But it’s too late. I’ve already started thinking about Mum and Dad and Zelda. If they were here I know for certain they wouldn’t leave this poor person to sob on her own.

  I go over to Celeste and kneel down and put my hand on her shoulder.

  For a moment she doesn’t do anything.

  Then she looks at me. Her face is puzzled. She doesn’t seem to recognise me at first. She brushes wet hair out of her eyes.

  ‘Felix,’ she says. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I can see what’s wrong. On the table are eight small candles burning in eight small saucers. In front of each candle is a photograph of a child.

  Eight of them.

  Eight small children.

  Celeste sees me looking at the photos. She tries to say something. But a sob catches in her throat and her face is full of anguish.

  My hand is still on her shoulder.

  I leave it there.

 
‘We have to look after each other,’ I say. ‘The Nazis killed our families, so we have to.’

  Celeste doesn’t reply. Just stares at the photos.

  When she does speak her voice is so small and shaky, I’m not sure if I’m hearing her properly.

  ‘The Nazis didn’t kill my children,’ she says.

  I look at her, puzzled.

  She turns to me.

  ‘I killed them,’ she says.

  Tears are rolling down her face. My heart is thudding loudly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I shouldn’t have told you that. It’s not fair. You’re just a boy. You shouldn’t have to hear that.’

  I’m in shock. I don’t know what to say.

  One thing I do know.

  In wartime things are never simple. Good things get mixed up with bad things. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which is which.

  ‘I’m still listening,’ I say to Celeste, my voice as shaky as hers.

  Celeste hesitates.

  She looks at the photographs again.

  ‘I was a nurse in a Jewish children’s hospital,’ she says. ‘We were planning to evacuate the children before the Nazis arrived. But the Nazis advanced too quickly. One day they were suddenly in the city, in our district, and minutes later they were outside the hospital.’

  Celeste pauses.

  On her face is the effort of the words.

  ‘The children were all too sick to walk,’ she says. ‘It was too late to carry them. The other nurses and me, we’d agreed what we’d do if this happened. We’d agreed we wouldn’t let the Nazis get their hands on our children. We wouldn’t let our children be killed in a painful way.’

  Celeste stops and just breathes for a while.

  I can see how hard it is for her to do even that.

  ‘We heard the Nazis trying to smash the door in,’ she says. ‘We had a tiny amount of morphine left. We gave it to the children. But it wasn’t enough. All it did was put them to sleep. So we got pillows and held the children in our arms and made sure the Nazis would never be able to hurt them.’

  She stops again.

  So much pain on her gentle face.

  ‘Then,’ says Celeste, ‘we cut our wrists. My cuts weren’t deep enough. The other nurses died, but I woke up.’

  A sob escapes from her throat

  I don’t say anything.